Now was the time to attack, when they had lost their momentum. Bracing himself

on the steps, he jumped at one youth who was brandishing a length of wood, with

a Front National poster attached, as thought it were a spear. He slammed the

heel of one hand into the base of the youth’s nose, then pirouetted to ram a

vicious elbow into the solar plexus of another. He used the turn to kick yet

another on the side of his knee and he was back at the base of the steps, three

men down before him.

One of the women stepped up beside Bruno and deliberately kicked the choking

skinhead in the testicles. Surprised, he registered that it was Pamela, who was

drawing back her foot to do it again. He stretched out his arms to hold her back

and keep the thugs away from the rest of the women when he felt a thudding blow

on the side of his face. Then he was punched hard in the kidneys and kicked in

the knee and someone else was hauling on his ankle. He knew that the first rule

of brawling was to stay on your feet, but he was dazed and he felt himself start

to go down. He forced himself to turn, to brace his arm against the stone wall,

but someone was holding tight onto his leg and two more were coming at him. He

flailed at the first one and stamped hard on the man holding his leg, hauling

hard on his hair, and the grip on his ankle slackened. But there were too many

And then something extraordinary happened: a whirlwind appeared. It was a slim,

slight whirlwind, but one that knew martial arts and leaped into the air,

kicking out one lethal foot aimed straight at the belly of the man in front of

Bruno. The whirlwind dropped, pirouetted and launched a second high kick into

the throat of another thug, and then landed and delivered two hard, short

punches to the nose of the man holding Bruno’s ankle. Suddenly free to move, he

turned to where the first blow to his head had come from and saw a middle-aged

stranger backing away from the whirlwind with his hands in the air. Bruno

grabbed an arm and twirled the man, seizing the back of his jacket and hauling

it upwards to imprison his arms, then tripped him and planted his boot hard on

the back of his prisoner’s neck. Suddenly a great calm seemed to settle over

him, even as the bullhorns continued to roar out their warring battle cries. The

women were disappearing up the steps and, in front of him, the whirlwind had

stopped fighting. At which point he saw with profound admiration that it was

Inspector Isabelle.

‘Thank you,’ he said. She smiled and nodded and darted off to the brawl still

under way in front of the hotel. Bruno released his foot from his prisoner. The

man groaned, shook his head and began to crawl away. Bruno ignored him.

He almost followed Isabelle, but stopped himself. He climbed the steps to get a

clearer view, and saw what he had to do next. He trotted back to the small squad

of gendarmes dithering outside the Mairie. As he heard the sound of windows

being smashed he shouted, ‘Follow me – and start blowing your whistles,’

although he was not entirely sure where he would lead them.

The Front National bullhorn seemed to be near the tossing flags, just in front

of the hotel, and that was where he headed. Four or five men were down on the

cobbles, and a few dozen were still milling around, but the rugby men knew what

they were doing. They had organised themselves into pairs, and fought back to

back. Karim had picked up a heavy metal litter bin, which he raised over his

head and threw with force into the knot of men guarding the Front National

flags. The ‘Send them back!’ bullhorn seemed to hiccup in pain and stopped

transmitting. Then Bruno led the gendarmes into the resulting confusion and

started handcuffing the ones on the ground. All of a sudden, it appeared to be

over. Men were still running, but running away.

Bruno shouted to the burliest of the gendarmes, a decent man he had known for

years. ‘Jean-Luc! There are three coaches in the bank car park. Go and

immobilise them – that’s what these bastards came in and that’s how they’ll try

to get out. Take a couple of your mates with you and handcuff the drivers if you

have to – or get some cars to form a blockade to keep the coaches in.’

Then the fire trucks arrived, two of them taking up most of the square, and the

pompiers climbed out and began to help. The first casualty they found was Ahmed,

their fellow volunteer fireman. He was unconscious, his face bloodied from a

smashed nose, and one of his front teeth was kicked in. A smaller red command

truck then screeched to a halt beside Bruno, its siren wailing, and Morisot, the

professional fireman who ran the local station, asked Bruno what his men could

do.

‘Start with first aid for those who need it, then round up anyone you don’t

recognise and lock them in your truck,’ Bruno instructed. ‘We’ll sort it all out

later at the Gendarmerie.’

Then he bent to check on young Roussel, a fast winger on the rugby team but too

slim and small for this kind of punch-up. He was dazed and winded and would have

a magnificent black eye, but was okay. Beside him, Lespinasse the prop forward,

short and squat and tough as they come, was on his knees and retching. ‘Bastards

kicked me in the balls,’ he grunted. Suddenly a TV camera and a microphone were

in Bruno’s face, and a concerned voice asked him what was happening.

Before he could think, and probably from sheer relief that none of his people

had been seriously hurt, Bruno said angrily, ‘We were attacked in our home town

by a bunch of outside extremists. That’s what happened.’

He took a breath and calmed himself, half-remembering some tedious lecture on

media relations at the Police Academy, which taught that the most important

thing was to get your side of the story out first because that would define the

subsequent coverage.

‘We were holding a quiet and peaceful parade and a meeting at the war memorial

to commemorate a dead war hero and these swines began chanting racist taunts and

throwing missiles and beating people up,’ he said. ‘It was mainly schoolchildren

gathered here in our town square, but these extremists didn’t seem to care. They

had organised this attack. They hired coaches to get here and brought their

banners and bullhorns and they came with one intention – to wreck our town and

our parade. But they didn’t reckon with the people of St Denis.’

‘What about casualties?’ came the next question, another camera this time.

‘We are still counting.’

‘What about your own injuries?’ he was asked. ‘That blood all over your face?’

He put his hand to his face and it did indeed come away bloody. ‘Mon Dieu,’ he

exclaimed. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

The cameras turned away as an ambulance blared its way into the square. In front

of the smashed plate glass window of the Hôtel St Denis, Doctor Gelletreau was

kneeling beside one of the prone bodies.

‘A couple of broken legs, a cracked collar bone and a few broken noses. Nothing

much worse than a good rugby match,’ Gelletreau said.

Bruno looked around his town square. He saw fire engines and ambulances, broken

windows, cobbles littered with smashed fruit, eggs and vegetables – and

frightened young faces peering from behind the stone pillars of the market. He

glanced up to the windows of the Mairie and spotted some shadowed faces peering

out from the banqueting chamber. So much for today’s lunch, he thought, and

began organising the transfer of those arrested over to the Gendarmerie. Bloody